For the Hearts You Break
by Veruka
Summary: The summer between his sixth and seventh years finds Harry Potter residing at the home of Minerva McGonagall, a situation that proves more complicated than the deputy headmistress ever could have expected . . . [HPxMM]
1. Mind the War Child

**_Disclaimer_**_: Harry Potter and all canon characters and concepts contained herein are property J. K. Rowling.  
**Notes/Warnings**: This story contains a professor/student relationship of a romantic nature; all those opposed to such subject matter would do well to hit the 'Back' button now, although I do intend to keep things as tasteful as I am able to.  
**Dedication**: For Alchemine, one of the finest McGonagall writers in the fandom, who unwittingly planted this idea in my brain. I only hope she doesn't mind the result. ;)_

* * *

**  
For the Hearts You Break  
  
**

* * *

_  
I get all numb when she sings it's over,  
Such a strange numb, and it brings my knees to the earth;  
And God bless you all for the song you saved us._

_You're the same numb when you sing it's over,  
Such a strange numb, it could bring back peace to the earth;  
So God bless you all for the song you saved us, oh,  
For the hearts you break, every time you moan._

_I get all numb, we're the same numb, and it brings our knees to the earth;  
So God bless you all for the song you saved us, oh,  
For the hearts you break, every time you moan, and God bless you all on the earth._

--The Deftones, "Minerva"

**

* * *

i. **_At times of war, we're all the losers;  
__There's no victory.  
__We shoot to kill and kill your lover;  
__Fine by me.  
__War child, victim of political pride;  
__Plant the seed, territorial greed;  
_**_Mind the war child_**_._

* * *

The world was awash in grey, the silver clouds bleeding into the dark, mossy slate of the moors. Although early July, the weather held the chill of an overcast sky -- it was unseasonably cold, but quite seasonably Scottish.

Minerva McGonagall dried her hands on an old tartan tea towel as she peered out her kitchen window. In the distance, upon the hill nearest the bailey, a slouching figure of red and stone-washed blue trudged northwest toward a small field of heather. Her eyes softened, and the corners of her mouth tightened in a slight frown. It appeared that summer's sluggish routine forgot to snare no one in its loop. The boy had been here for a mere four days, and had spent each afternoon since his arrival walking the same path to the same spot amongst the heather, just to the left of the field's centre. There he would pause and stare for a few moments at his surroundings, lost, before dropping to his knees as if having decided to wait for someone to find him.

Today was no different.

He didn't, she supposed, actually _want_ to be found -- at least, not yet. She had tried on the first day, with a gentle hand on his shoulder and an idle inquiry as to his want for a jumper or -- and she'd had an inkling of the question's hopelessness before she'd asked it -- to talk. He had politely declined both offers, of course, and as he always returned inside at dusk when she called him to supper, she tried to force herself not to worry overmuch. Even if he did only push his food around his plate in a respectful, albeit feigned, show of interest in eating.

She couldn't blame him. She felt almost guilty to urge him to please eat _something_, and had nearly swallowed her tongue along with the words at every meal. Still, if he didn't improve within the next day or two . . .

With any luck, she would be able to coax him inside a little earlier today. The scones were nearly done, a surreptitious encouragement on her part: a sweeter, smaller meal that would perhaps be more to his liking. And, she admitted to herself, a test of sorts, of whether or not he would take note of the extra effort she was making, and thus betray his awareness of the world around him. He would sit with her out of respect; if he recognised she had gone to such trouble, he would eat with her out of obligation.

_He already has more than his share of 'obligations',_ she inwardly scolded herself, but the other half of her mind countered quickly, _Then what's one more? And besides, it's to his own health; he would possess it regardless of . . . of other circumstances._

Replacing the tea towel neatly on its rack, Minerva staunchly derailed that particular train of thought from winding through her head. She couldn't think about such things, couldn't dwell too much on the irony of them. That road was lined with too many questions, all of which she knew from personal experience that even a half-century's searching couldn't answer.

Shaking her head to physically strengthen her resolve, with a gesture she floated a tray of slightly too-browned scones out of the oven.

"Oh, blast it," she muttered under her breath upon seeing their colour. Nor could a half-century of searching reveal to her the elusive 'perfect timing' required for most baked goods. Oh well. Grief tasted like ash and apathy; it seemed only fitting that her scones do the same.

Minerva faltered as she retrieved two small plates from the china closet. Ash . . . yes, that had been an especially bad joke.

She set down the plates with a great deal more noise than was necessary and again picked up the tea towel, telling herself that her eyes were stinging from the stirred dust alone as she fanned away as much of the burnt smell emanating from the oven as she could.

Her gaze flicked back to the window. He hadn't moved other than to open a bottle of butterbeer, one from the case young Mr Malfoy had had sent over the second he had learned where Potter was to be spending the summer holidays. "To keep you warm when the cold seeps in," the note accompanying the case had read. It might have been touching, had he not followed it with, "because it's pretty bloody obvious you don't spend your money on proper clothes, you stupid sod." But, Minerva knew, actions spoke louder than words. It was a very Gryffindor trait. No wonder Malfoy had neutralised it as best he could with a good dash of insult.

It had surprised no one more than themselves (with the exclusion, maybe, of everyone who wasn't Albus, though Minerva had her suspicions that the twinkle in his eye when she had commented upon it had in fact been shock or, at the very least, mild surprise) when they'd realised that, over the course of six years and innumerable snide remarks, dastardly hexes and general immaturity, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy had become friends. Not _best_ friends, no, certainly not; to say they were _close_ friends was even stretching it a little. The revelation hadn't happened cut-and-dry out of the blue. It had taken a good portion of their sixth year at Hogwarts for them to finally resolve most of their differences. Malfoy's father had played a large role in that, Minerva was certain, although how . . .

One thing she did know: a person never left Azkaban prison the same as they'd gone in, even with the absence of the Dementors. Lucius Malfoy had changed. In what ways, she didn't know, nor did she care to know, but that he had was an unavoidable fact, and whatever he had changed into it must not have sat well with Draco. For that, Minerva was sorry. Draco Malfoy was a snotty little . . . _lad_, but she didn't begrudge him the loss of his father. Approved of it, yes, emphatically, but there was a difference between wishful thinking and thinking something for the best. It was for the best that Draco had at last opened up to influences outside those of his family, and of those his family tyrannised into agreeing with them. It was amazing, what spite could accomplish. There were times it seemed to cross more boundaries than love.

But not sorrow. Spite could be an afterthought of sorrow, a discant, a byproduct, but never could it transcend into sorrow having previously existed. Love with sorrow remained love, but spite with sorrow morphed into regret.

The hatefulness between Potter and Malfoy had morphed with the death of Ginevra Weasley.

History was quite possibly the most witless entity Minerva had ever come across. It never learned from its mistakes. Her contempt for it had begun during her own time as a student at Hogwarts -- the subject had nearly cost her becoming Head Girl, and had been the most difficult NEWT she had ever earned. Her mind was warped, she used to pun, due to her natural aptitude for Transfiguration. How was she meant to excel in a subject of such limitless monotony when everything within her required evolution, change? Despite all priggish pretences that seemed part and parcel with a penchant for academia, it was the chaos of the world that she thrived upon. Anyone who had ever met her on the Quidditch pitch some fifty-odd years ago could have attested that her name denoted warrior as much as it did wisdom -- her right arm was still a fair bit stronger than her left, despite it having been decades since she had last picked up a Beater's bat.

While the heavy historical tomes to be found in the school library told of many wars, their transcribers bore witness to the fact that there had been little growth in wisdom throughout the ages. Generals utilised the same stratagems over and over again, learning not the devices of peace but retaining only the ideas and 'advancements' that ensured each successive battle would be bloodier and more horrific than the last. No, Minerva McGonagall possessed a definite lack of respect for history; she couldn't bring herself to take a thorough interest in something that couldn't even respect itself.

She couldn't bring herself to do much more than loathe it as, out in the heather field, a sixteen-year-old veteran nursed his bottle of childish drink, his eyes downcast as he relived for the thousandth time the most recent moments in which history had repeated itself, in which the only knowledge he had come away with had been how to lose.

Even that, in a way, was a mere reiteration of time. He'd been practicing loss since he'd been aged one.

For the second time, Harry Potter had found himself pitted against his enemy alone, save the wounded company of his best friend's younger sister. For the second time, after two had vanished only one had returned alive and, true to every redheaded cliché, her hair had gleamed like fire, with fire, until her chapter in this second war had tapered from present-tense into past. Potter had yet to discuss in full detail what had happened beyond the veil, where he had followed his ladylove and his nemesis, but this time . . . this time he had not brought back a body.

Nothing, in any case, that could be considered a body.

He had been inconsolable for many hours, wandering the halls between hysteria and catatonia. Occasionally one could make out a word woven into the wails. "Pyre," in a vibrato, with a furious shake of his head; "Ginny," "no," and "don't!" as he buried his face in his scorched hands, curled up foetal in his bed at St Mungo's. His shoulders would tremble, and Albus had mentioned with great sadness that he wasn't entirely sure the boy had been crying. Minerva remembered Sirius Black, and the witnesses to his capture's reports of his maniacal laughter, the madness of factual innocence and personal guilt. And when it had stopped, when they had put him in that place ("In his place," Severus had grimly quipped). . .

There were bars behind Potter's dulled green eyes, an internal Azkaban warded by dementia. Some things could swallow a person's soul without aid of a kiss, although Minerva was quite certain Ginny Weasley's lips had branded the boy's fate to hurt that much deeper before he'd ever dived to save her. He'd been raised with humiliation, humility, but perhaps his sin of choice was pride -- he seemed to do so many things in vain.

She arranged the scones on a plate bordered with hand-painted forget-me-nots.

It had been Alastor Moody, strangely enough, who had suggested Potter spend his summer holidays with Hogwarts' Transfiguration mistress. The decision had been made in a roundabout fashion that had left Minerva barely realising what she had agreed to before the arrangements had been all but set in stone. It was inconceivable that the boy be made to spend even one minute in the company of his atrocious Muggle relatives while in his current frame of mind, and the Weasleys were too much in mourning themselves to do anything more than hinder what healing could be got, despite Molly and Arthur's lachrymose volunteering of their home. No, the Burrow would be far too thick with unpleasant and possibly violent emotions. The Weasleys had lost a daughter, a sister, and no matter the amount of charity they had shown Potter in the past, the surrogate family they had attempted to be for him, Ginny's death threw into stark relief the fact that he was not one of their own, to speak nothing of the guilt Potter himself would surely drown in, surrounded day after day by those who loved the girl most. It would be too taxing for all involved.

Alastor had, naturally, offered his own house, but that idea had been rebuked almost as quickly as the Weasleys' had. The aging Auror's definition of 'safety' rarely coincided with that of 'stability', and paranoia, Albus had gently pointed out to his old friend, was not the direction in which they wanted to push the boy. Albus himself, as much as he dearly wished to help the child in any way he could, could not in good conscience take him in. Potter needed somebody who could _be there_ to protect him, which, Albus admitted with a lowered gaze, he had shown more than once in the past that he could not always do.

No one had mentioned Remus Lupin's name.

"So," said Moody gruffly, ticking off requirements with his gnarled fingers, "we need someone strong enough to stand a chance against a Dark wizard, someone the boy knows well enough to take comfort in his or _her_ presence, and whose summer months can be for the most part spent at home, without the anxiety of professional obligations."

The assembled members of the Order had all been staring at her before Alastor had even concluded his list. Automatically Minerva had opened her mouth to protest, but only a small, choked sound found its way past her throat. There was no arguing her qualifications. She was a skilled witch, a teacher accustomed to dealing with children, Potter's Head of House, and with nothing and no one placing constraints on her time outside of Hogwarts and the Order, which had apparently just delivered her assignment for the next two months. The boy had fought for his life for the fifth time, had lost a close friend, was injured, in shock -- how could she possibly deny him anything, let alone in the name of her own privacy and comparitive leisure? She could not be so selfish.

After a beat, she had agreed.

Potter hadn't seemed to mind, when Albus informed him.

Rather, he hadn't seemed to care, not until he had actually set foot within McGonagall Màrrach. Then, at least, he'd recognised who he was staying with, and what that might entail. His knowing precisely where he was was fairly inconsequential, as there were only a handful of souls who _could_ know. Albus had seen to that. The modest castle -- more akin to a glorified keep, really -- nestled just outside of Dundee had never been so thoroughly and formidably guarded in all the centuries of its existence. It had always been Unplottable, as the majority of wizarding homes tended to be, but now to say it was repellant would have been an understatement of the highest degree. Both the lonely stone structure and its grounds were all but suffocated in wards and charms, a vicious briar of magic whose knots were so dense and tightly wound they were nearly tangles.

Albus Dumbledore had been an old man when she had first known him, when he had held her current position at Hogwarts and Minerva herself had been his pupil, but even she had had no idea that his years could reach so far. Magic flows along a different current in time than that of human life; Dumbledore, having lived so long as to be able to dip his fingertips into that second stream and not be swept away, could beckon forth a wisp of something ancient. He had not cast these wards; he had _grown_ them. The ethereal thorns that now guarded Minerva's ancestral home had sprung up from the very earth without aid of wand or words, and coiled around her castle like ropes strung up to fell a colossus. It was the stuff of fairytales -- myths that, stripped of their romantic lies, were frightening, raw. A reminder that legend is not legend, not respected, without cause.

Partial Anti-Apparation and Portkey spells were the least of the security measures taken. One could Apparate or Portkey _out_ of the keep and its grounds, in the interest of expedient escape, and within them as one pleased, for evasion, but the only way to enter onto McGonagall property was the old fashioned way: by foot, and even then there was no guarantee that access could be gained without the appropriate charms and encryptions. The flues had been closed off from the Floo Network for all but communication purposes, which only a handful of other fireplaces had access to. Dumbledore had arranged for whatever necessities they required to be delivered by owl post. Potter himself had had the presence of mind enough to disallow the final precaution his elders had deliberated for some days before mentioning it to him: there would be no Fidelius Charm placed upon their whereabouts.

That, at least, seemed hopeful. That he was willing to bury himself only so deep, for only so long, showed a level of responsibility and bravery Minerva continually found herself taken aback by, that a teenaged boy could possess such strength of character. She reminded herself of the fact often. A shallow grave was far easier to climb out of than a proper one; Potter, for all his present dysphoria, did not intend himself to die. Considering all the boy had been through in his young life, that was admirable indeed. God knew she wouldn't have been able to handle the sorts of things he'd faced and survived at that age. She wasn't at all certain she could have handled them at _sixty_, let alone sixteen. Oh, the battles, she could have weathered those; battles were the simple part . . . but the aftermaths, the breaths drawn between the screams . . .

Shaking off her macabre reflections, Minerva pushed open the kitchen window before pointing her wand at her throat.

"_Sonorus_," she murmured, then spoke softly so that her voice projected as nothing more than a distant call along the wind, "Potter, tea."

The boy inclined his head toward the keep and, after a moment, nodded once, then got to his feet.

"_Quietus_."

Minerva set the kitchen table.

Potter always paused when entering the tower as if he were stepping foot in it for the first time. His eyes would scan the room without criticism, but perhaps with a little surprise at the normalcy of it. Or the strangeness of it, considering his experience with homes of a magical nature was limited to the Burrow and Grimmauld Place, neither of which could really be labelled 'standard', even for wizarding folk. Not that owning one's own medieval castle was exactly _normal_, but outward appearances aside, it was far less ornate than the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, and far more . . . far less _cluttered_ than the Weasleys' Burrow. There were heirlooms, certainly, some worth a great deal of money -- Minerva herself was quite a few generations from poverty -- but the family had gone to no greater lengths to illustrate their wealth than a customary One Fine Thing per descendent, for posterity. The keep was _simple_. At times she thought to describe it as 'sophisticated' or, if one discounted the busy tartan of some of the furnishings, 'understated'. (Truth be told, if one discounted the busy tartan furnishings she would be forced to describe the place as 'destitute'. Clan pride was considered an entity beyond kitsch ornamentation, and none made that distinction so severe as the McGonagalls.)

It rose, an impressive hexagon of bastioned stone, out of a steep motte, at the base of which was a comparitively small outgrowth that had, in its day, served as a shelter for the Aethonans -- breeding the winged horses had been her cousin Nike's greatest passion.

The fortress's three high-ceilinged storeys contained nearly two dozen rooms, six of which were bedchambers each the size of a Gryffindor Tower dormitory. Minerva had delegated to Potter the room directly beneath her own in order to give him his privacy (and to preserve hers) as well as quick access to her own chambers; as every bedroom possessed its own fireplace, he could flue up to her room instantaneously, should an emergency deem it essential. He had settled in as easily as he might have anywhere else.

"They're a little overdone," Minerva apologised, as the boy slouched into one of the wooden chairs surrounding the round kitchen table, "but I've never claimed to be a chef."

"It's fine," said Potter quickly, and waited until Minerva had poured the tea and seated herself before he reached for one of the lighter-coloured scones. "Thank you."

She gave him a small smile and added a healthy shot of milk to her tea.

After a few (remarkably prolonged) moments of relative silence, she began to wish it had been whisky. She had never had patience to waste on awkwardness and, unfortunately, the characteristic tended to clash with her very acute sense of guilt.

"I spoke to Alastor Moody today," she ventured conversationally. "He said he might stop by this evening, time permitting."

Potter nodded, and worried at his lower lip in place of nibbling one half of his dry scone. Minerva surreptitiously pushed a pot of bilberry jam in his direction.

"I can make your excuses," she went on, "if you would prefer not to see him. The man can be . . . jarring, and not usually in the best of ways, as you know, Potter."

The boy's gaze darted back and forth across the table, as if looking for his own words to snare. Absently he yielded to her encouragement, and began to smear his scone with jam and a dollop of clotted cream.

"Do you . . . do you not like him, Professor?" he asked, and Minerva was glad for his inquisitiveness, so much so that she didn't mind his avoidance of her question.

"Oh, I like him well enough. There was a time I liked him a great deal more, but . . . he's a fine Auror, and a good man, if a touch drastic in his methods."

"A time when you liked him more?" Harry frowned slightly. "What happened?"

Minerva felt a flush creep up past her neck and into her cheeks, and if she hadn't known better she would have supposed Potter had lulled her into a false sense of vexation to further the chances of his gaining answers when he pried.

"We were at Hogwarts together, for a time," she explained into her teacup. "The folly of youth can bring on inexplicable bouts of insanity and blindness. Eat your scone, Potter."

He did -- only one bite, but it was a proper bite, and despite wishing that she hadn't been so abrupt with him Minerva was satisfied with the small progress.

"I think," said Harry once his cup was empty, "I think I'd rather go to bed early, if that's all right? I'm feeling very tired."

Minerva dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and withheld a sigh. His voice had taken on that tone again -- or more accurately, it was without tone altogether, that same retreating, hollow sound he had spoken with for the past two weeks. Inwardly she berated herself; she should not have been so abrupt with him . . .

_One step forward and two steps back . . ._

"Very well," she murmured. "If you need anything . . ."

He nodded again, and made to leave the room with a polite "Goodnight, Professor."

_Don't let him just _leave_, you fool! Say something, reassure him--_

"Potter!" Minerva started, just as he reached the threshold. Harry paused and turned around, his expression quizzical. The Head of Gryffindor studied him for a moment, her expansive vocabulary eluding her completely at the weary anticipation in her pupil's eyes.

". . . Call me Minerva."

He blinked once, somehow slowly and startled at the same time, and the corners of his mouth twitched in what might have been an attempt at a smile. He said nothing, however; merely turned and headed for his chambers, butterbeer in pocket.

* * *

"How's the boy?"

Minerva shot him a look that began sternly but found itself weighted by uncertainty, and her gaze settled on the floor.

"That good, eh?" The question was rhetorical, and she let it drop with the same heaviness as Moody himself, as he sat down upon the sofa in her lounge.

The silence that ensued between them was blessedly different than that which had hung pensively in the air between Potter and herself that afternoon, the long years they had known each other compensating for their lack of general communication. They were not particularly good friends, but they were old friends, and the two varying comforts had, over time, grown almost indistinguishable.

The ice in Minerva's glass clinked together as she sipped her scotch.

"Kingsley should be out of hospital in a couple of days," Alastor remarked in an offhand sort of manner that contradicted his underlying concern. "The Healers are being overly cautious, in my opinion; it'd take more than two Death Eaters to fell a wizard like Shacklebolt."

Minerva arched an eyebrow. "Alastor Moody believes someone to be acting _overly_ cautious? I never thought I'd see the day."

The old Auror's good eye narrowed at her in a reprimanding scowl. The other swivelled wildly in offence.

"There's a difference," he maintained. "Too much coddling in the name of medicine will only make a person go soft. A bit of pain does a man good, keeps him alert! Constant--"

"Yes, Alastor, you've made your point," Minerva interrupted him, although she could have sworn she heard a gruff grumble of "Vigilance . . .!" in Moody's subsequent clearing of his throat. At least it wasn't "_Hem_, _hem_."

". . . Tonks is standing guard," he continued. "At his door day and night, it seems. At his bedside, too, when she thinks no one's watching. Humph."

"You disapprove?"

"Only of their timing," Moody groused, and fumbled around in his pockets for his flask. "Damn it, Minerva, there's a war on! Tonks is enough of a security issue as it is; add to that a silly, romantic distraction and the girl'll end up breaking her own neck before summer's end! She already falls over her own feet, I can't have her falling all over Shacklebolt as well! He's one of my best men, and--"

"And if they don't get it out of their systems _now_, just imagine their distraction when things finally take that last turn for the worst. Providing, of course, that either of them don't derail going round one of the sharp corners preceding it."

Alastor stared at her, flabbergasted. "Such a cynical sentiment doesn't sound like you at all, McGonagall. Whatever happened to your stiff upper lip?"

A clipped laugh escaped Minerva's lips. "I'm surprised you're not proud, Mad-Eye. Isn't that part of your doctrine: examine every angle of a situation?"

Alastor's stare deepened into a glower. "I think you've had enough scotch."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous--"

"You shouldn't be imbibing _any_ hard drink, not now -- Potter's life is in _your_ hands! You can't very well protect him sozzled--"

"_Sozzled_?!" Minerva exclaimed, rising from her seat. "I am _hardly_ sozzled! And if you spent day in and day out with no one but that -- that _zombie_ of a child--" She broke short her own diatribe with a sharp gasp and clasped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror at her own words. "Oh, God, what am I saying . . ."

After a few brief, scrutinising seconds, Moody hefted himself up off the sofa and placed a pocked hand upon her arm. "Perhaps . . ." he said slowly, gently pushing her back down into her chair, "perhaps I made a mistake, in suggesting that Potter stay with you . . ."

Minerva's blue-grey gaze flashed up at him, clearing immediately as she quickly protested, "No!"

"You're too close to him, Minerva," Moody persisted. "You're too sympathetic to the boy's plight, it's not safe--"

"And where would he be safe?" she snapped. "With the Dursleys? You won't find more unsympathetic guardians. When the boy comes around -- and he _is_ coming around, Alastor, he only needs _time_ -- do you really think that time will ever come in the midst of people who are virtually strangers to him?"

The Auror didn't reply, although his crooked mouth was set in a thin, grim line.

Minerva exhaled at length and combed her fingers through her hair, effectively dishevelling her bun. "It is my closeness to Potter that will help him through this all the quicker, I am sure of it. I am his Head of House, I was his confidant for the Order throughout his fifth and sixth years at Hogwarts. You said it yourself. I can take care of him -- I _am_ taking care of him . . ." She wished, upon reflection, that she had stated that last sentence with more conviction.

Alastor retained his judgmental quietness. Minerva raised her head to look levelly at him, the effect marred only slightly by the wisps of black hair that had been loosed around her sombre -- sober -- face.

"And I -- am _not_ --_ sozzled_."

". . . All right," Moody at last conceded, rising and taking a step back. "All right, Minerva. But do try to keep the scotch to a nip per night."

The witch glared at him through eyebrows knitted perilously close together with warning.

"_Goodnight_, Alastor," she muttered, teeth clinched.

"I'll return on Friday."

"I can hardly wait."

"Goodnight, Professor." And then, his enchanted eye rotating to face the back of his skull, he added, "And goodnight to you as well, Mister Potter."

With a soft crack of air, Moody Disapparated, leaving Minerva struck dumb by and fixated upon the eavesdropping figure occupying the shadows of of the spiralling stone staircase that led from the lounge to the bedchambers.

"You--" Minerva stammered, righteous indignation and fresh anxiety warring within her head as the demand works itself free of her twisting tongue. "How long have you been sitting there, Potter?"

Harry shrugged and became engrossed in the shabby state of his slippers. "Long enough. I . . . I'm sorry."

Minerva opened her mouth to speak, but found herself at a loss for what to say. An order for him to return to bed danced on the tip of her tongue. A lecture on the impropriety and rudeness of listening in on the conversations of others queued just behind it. But she couldn't really blame Potter for his curiosity; he hadn't overheard anything so terribly important -- indeed, she liked to think she would know better than to speak of all truly significant matters without the protection of a Silencing Charm -- and he _had_ apologised . . .

A strange tightness formed in her chest. What precisely had he apologised for: his own insolence, or did he feel ashamed, an undesired intruder in her private life?

No -- no, she had made it clear to Alastor that Potter was not only welcome in her home, but wanted. In point of fact, she had been rather taken aback by her own vehemence in defending her responsibility for the boy. It had been unexpected, but now that she had said it aloud she realised that she had meant every word of it. As she looked up at Harry Potter, the jaded wit and caustic chidings that were an integral part of any educator who had been teaching as long as she had dissolved in a wave of the utmost protectiveness -- in its intensity, one could almost label it 'possessiveness' -- that stemmed suddenly, seemingly, from the same source.

Her censures were muted against her palate before she had drawn the breath intended to voice them.

"It's all right, Potter. But," she managed, "don't make a habit of it."

Potter acquiesced with a nod, then stood and ascended the steps back toward his room. He was nearly out of sight when he bent low again.

"Minerva?" he asked.

Although she had given him leave to call her by her given name, to hear herself addressed by it in his voice caught her off guard.

"Yes, Potter?"

"Thank you."

Minerva gave him a small smile, and decided against pressing for specifics.

"You're welcome, Potter."

Once he had vanished and she was certain he would not reappear, Minerva reached again for her glass of scotch . . . only to find that it had vanished as well.

_Damn you, Alastor Moody . . ._


	2. And You're Gone

**_Notes_**_: Many, many thanks to my reviewers. I hope I haven't kept you all waiting too long, but attempting to write short chapters is, for me, akin to pulling teeth, and this is rather speedy compared to my updating pace in this category of late. The muse is still going strong, though (knock on wood). Alchemine, I'm so thrilled that you're pleased with it! I'm having far too much fun writing it. :D And Auburn Lily, I'm flattered; unfortunately, I don't think I'll be completing Tourniquet -- I recently put a note in my bio section detailing why. Perhaps one day, though.  
  
"Jean Brodie in a witch's hat." -- Dame Maggie Smith, describing Professor M.  
  
And here's to you, Miss McGonagall; Jesus loves you more than you will know, whoa whoa whoa . . ._

* * *

__

**ii. **_What you were,  
What you were, I couldn't say;  
'Cause you left me here behind,  
A stupid state of mind,  
And I'm lonely.  
Yeah, you left me here behind,  
A stupid state of mind,  
**And you're gone**._

* * *

__

_Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Euterpe Music House: Join Our Club and Get Fifteen Records for One Knut!, Luna Lovegood, Floo bill, Neville Longbottom . . ._

Minerva sighed as she thumbed through the day's post, seperating her own mail from Potter's. One week had passed since Alastor's infuriating visit, and her charge's correspondances still lacked any word from Ronald Weasley -- or any of the Weasleys, for that matter. Although he had said nothing of his best friend's silence, he nonetheless reacted to it. Whether it was relief, annoyance or disappointment, she couldn't tell, but Potter's usually blank expression seemed to falter whenever he glanced at the senders' names and did not find the one he was looking for.

His own responses were brief, if the amount of time he spent writing back to his peers was any indication, and rarely sent with any haste. The only exception to his apathy appeared to be Mr Malfoy, who was likely distant enough (and shallow enough) to both warrant and accept a few noncommittal lines of reassurance.

She set down her own stack on kitchen table. An advertisement for Gladrags blinked up at her, _Sale! Sale! Sale!_. She covered it with the Floo bill. Potter's letters she would leave at the base of the stairs for him to take to his room the next time he was headed in that direction.

He was in the parlour, occupying the same chair in which Minerva had defended her sobriety to Moody, immersed in one of the books he'd plucked from the shelves that lined two of the walls. She watched him, unseen, from the doorway. While he still said little, he had at least stopped lingering for hours in that infernal heather field, and not a moment too soon -- the flowered knoll had begun to look like a burial mound in her eyes, with his mourning form perched at its summit. Minerva wasn't one for excessive escapism, but thought it much better that he lose himself in works of fiction -- for it was C. S. Lewis' _The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_ to which his mind currently travelled -- than in his own morbid ruminations. Eventually she would broach the subject of homework and hint that he also improve his marks. It didn't seem entirely fair that he was not exempt from summer schoolwork, but that unfairness paled in comparison to practicality. Potter needed all the education he could stomach, especially in matters of magical application, and Minerva would see that he got it. He had done quite well this past year, despite outside influences, qualifying for what NEWT classes he needed to take in order to pursue his ambition of becoming an Auror; she wasn't about to allow him to lose those dreams in addition to what he'd lost already.

For now, though . . . she fancied she could read his thoughts, so ingrained upon hers was the story he read.

_"Narnia? What's that?" said Lucy.  
"This is the land of Narnia," said the Faun, "where we are now; all that lies between the lamp-post and the great castle of Cair Paravel on the Eastern Sea . . ."_

She was grateful that her family had always been too sensible to deem anything produced by Muggles as being inferior (her grandfather William's poetry would have rendered the notion purely hypocritical if they had). What a pity it was, the things the offspring of narrow-minded purebloods missed. Minerva herself had been in her twenties when Lewis' fantastical series had been published, still close enough to childhood to appreciate their magic -- and magic it was, neither Muggle nor wizarding, but something sentient and wonderful beyond those boundaries.

"Have you read the books before?" she announced her presence by way of a question. Potter lifted his head, a faint blush colouring his cheeks.

"No," he replied. "They weren't around . . . that is, my cousin wasn't very big on reading. I've missed out on a lot of things."

_Of course,_ Minerva reminded herself with an annoyed thought of Potter's only living relatives, _narrow-minded Muggles can disadvantage their children just as much._

"They may make more sense," she said, striding the length of the room to one of the bookshelves, "if you read them sequentially according to their timeline, and not their publishing dates." Running a finger along the spines, she selected a volume fourth to the right of the empty space left by _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_, then made her way to the sofa and took a seat across from her ward. Potter closed the book he held and took the one she offered.

"_The Magician's Nephew_," he read aloud. "What's it about?"

"The creation of Narnia. Another world is discovered by a boy, fostered by his aunt and uncle, named Digory, who--" Minerva stopped herself, and her heart skipped a beat. How could she have been so thoughtless?

Potter offered her a small, consolatory smile. "It's all right," he promised, resting a hand lightly overtop one of hers. "It's not the least common of names. I'll read it. It already sounds like I'll be able relate to it."

Minerva glanced down at their hands, unable to conceal her surprise at the gesture. The boy's skin was hot, almost overly so, and the mottled scars that covered his palm felt like the mountain ridges on a globe. For a few seconds she was paralysed, unsure of whether to take her hand away or encourage the first human contact he had sought in weeks.

Potter decided for her. Taking note of her discomfort, he withdrew his hand under the pretence of covering a false cough.

"Yes, well . . ." Minerva cleared her throat and rose, smoothing her skirt (Muggle clothing, she'd always admired, offered an ease and quickness of movement not to be found in the robes favoured by witches and wizards, and she tended towards their sartorial benefits whenever she was away from magical society). "I'll leave you to it, then. Your post is on the stairs."

Without waiting for him to respond, she retreated upstairs to her chambers.

Not for the first time, she wished that Albus would find -- no, _make_ -- the time for a visit, though she knew it was a futile hope. What little of Cornelius Fudge's wit that remained was frayed with the stresses of being responsible for overseeing things he had never so much as imagined he would glimpse. And he was so damned malleable, such a _coward_ . . . how that man could could sit in his office and dictate orders -- contradicting orders, mind, that were more often than not _counter_productive to their cause -- while so many others with far less reason to take action did so, and went unrewarded, unrecognised . . . it was enough to make her bristle with rage. Dumbledore was having enough difficulty as it was trying to keep his position as headmaster, an occupation he was one day guaranteed and the next shouting to sustain, as Fudge waffled between influences. Minerva couldn't very well request that he risk not being there when the minister's leanings shifted again. If any one thing in this deplorable war were certain, it was that the removal of Albus Dumbledore from all official power would prove disastrous.

_Unless we made our own . . ._ The thought trailed off into anarchy, which was possibly where it would lead, if it were ever put to actual use. A leader was only as strong as the loyalty of those who followed him, after all, and if Fudge managed to bungle up much more . . .

Minerva slumped down onto the edge of her bed and rested her arms upon her knees, feeling for a moment like the insecure schoolgirl she had not been in many decades. What an awful habit Albus had bred into her, her dependance on him. Oh, she was fully capable of functioning on her own, making her own decisions, standing her ground . . . but he had always been standing right behind her. For as long as she could remember, the voice in the back of her head had been his. Her conscience spoke with his inflections, his dissatisfaction, his praise. She didn't _need_ to be told what to do, hardly so; but whenever the option of asking Dumbledore's advice was denied her, it formed a Celtic knot in her stomach that refused to be unravelled.

"Oh, this is absurd!" she scoffed, catching her reflection in the cheval glass that neighboured the wall to the right of her bed. Standing up, she assumed her usual authoritative posture, straight-backed and with her head held high, and gave herself a steely glare as she surveyed her appearance.

If she was inclined toward vanity, she might have thought herself pretty. As she wasn't, she had, after an awkward adolescence, resigned herself to her own brand of strangely-featured dignity. A smoothly sloping forehead descended to heavy-lidded eyes that, at the moment, conveyed what she considered an appropriate level of imperious displeasure. Her nose was straight, if slightly pointed, her cheekbones prominent and her mouth small (growing up, she would have preferred that the strength of both features were reversed). The elegant upsweep of her hair -- which, she noted with some pride, was lacking so much as a strand of grey -- balanced the jutting line of what had come to be known as the King Jaw, from her father's side of the family. Her complexion had survived her somewhat abusive youth with a few telltale freckles and expression lines, and her figure had changed very little throughout adulthood. She had always been skinny and suspected she always would be, but at least maturity had lent itself to that description -- she'd been downright bony during her Quidditch days. Now, she was merely . . . sharp, an adjective which seemed to suit every aspect of her person and of her character.

Still, she had held up incredibly well for her age -- well enough for Poppy Pomfrey to feel it necessary to get in more than a couple of "At _your_ age . . ." jibes, which were composed of equal parts jealousy and amiability. At her age, indeed; she was in her _prime_! Seventy-six was scarcely middle-aged for a witch, and rightly so a Muggle might mistake her for being somewhere in her late thirties to early forties, which was nothing to sneeze at, Poppy Pomfrey and her symptomatic leanings aside.

Her autonomy thus reaffirmed, Minerva squared her shoulders, took a breath, and made to return downstairs. In the throes of awareness of her own self-sufficiency, the Floo bill beckoned.

* * *

_The lioness versus the lamb . . . one would think the results obvious . . ._

Approximately two hours later found her again in the kitchen, her lips pursed in a scowl. The chops sizzled defiantly in their frying pan. She glanced at the yellowed family cookery book, where _Tasgall Macnair's Axed Lamb with Orange Gore_ wore a guise of the utmost innocence. Along the top, around the title, Tasgall's pun of a doodle depicted a small hogget being led with a martyr's hauteur to the chopping block, as a maniacal-looking little stick figure sharpened the blade of its axe next to a pot of marmalade. Minerva was reasonably sure she had got the recipe correct, but the outcome thus far little resembled the engraving that had been stuck on at the bottom of the page.

A heavy _slam_ from behind her caused her to start violently. Minerva whirled around, wand already in hand and poised for defence -- only to be lowered just as quickly, when she found not the masked descendant of Great-Uncle Tassy but the wide-eyed countenance of her untidy-haired charge.

"Good heavens, Potter!" she exclaimed, her wand hand clutched to her heart. _The Magician's Nephew_ rested on the tabletop, the origin of the sudden noise.

"Sorry -- it slipped," Harry explained, sheepish, and added hurriedly, "I like it, though."

Her blood warming again as its adrenaline diffused, Minerva recalled how to breathe -- and how to smile. "Well, I'm glad to hear it. What part are you up to?"

"_Strawberry's Adventure_. They've just got to the lands beyond the edge of Narnia."

"Chapter twelve already?" Minerva raised an eyebrow, impressed. "That was fast. If only you became so absorbed in your lessons."

Potter shrugged, and the corners of his mouth quirked upward. "Some day I might surprise you."

Minerva laughed, a sound more hollow than lighthearted, as she spooned marmalade atop the lamb chops. "You always do, Potter, believe me. Sometimes I wonder if you don't have more lives than I do."

"Maybe," he confessed; and then, a moment later, "But not my own."

The change in his tone was like an icy floodhead, and the rush of adrenaline returned. Was the boy ready to talk at last? And if he was, how best to prompt him into speaking further?

". . . What do you mean, Potter?" she quietly asked.

"It always feels like I'm taking them, like I wasn't born to be like this. He made me this way; turned me into what I am, what I have to do. He left a part of himself in me, and I can't help but be partly him. I can't help . . . affecting people . . . the same way he does."

He spoke with the voice of a ghost, and Minerva stifled a shiver as she turned, slowly, to face him once more. His gaze had settled, trance-like and unseeing, on the book atop the table.

"You're not him, Potter," she assured him. All the same, an image flashed upon the screen of her mind, a transparency layered across her vision in the form of another black-haired, green-eyed boy she had known once, and too well. She blinked it forcibly away and tried again, "He chose his path, and yes, he decided, in part, your own; but the very fact that those paths intertwine is proof that they are not parallel."

Potter's eyes locked suddenly on hers. "We're connected. We always will be, until one of us . . ." The sentence trailed off, its ending unnecessary. Minerva noticed that his hands had clenched into fists at his sides. ". . . And even then," he murmured in an unnerving mix of menace and fear, "who knows what might be left behind?"

The question lingered in the air, and if she could have done Minerva would have snatched it from where it hung and torn it to pieces. As it was, she was at a loss for words and actions both, for she had nothing to promise the boy that mightn't be broken.

"He _chose_ to become what he is," she reiterated, "and you have chosen not to accept that. As long as you contest him, Potter, as long as you defy him . . . he has no more power over you than you have over him. If anything, your hold over him is even stronger -- he chose you for his nemesis, not his successor."

Potter was silent, though the tendons in his temples corded as his jaw worked pensively. When he finally spoke again, the query wasn't what she had expected to hear.

"Is something burning?"

Minerva sniffed. Something was.

"Oh, of all the--" she hissed, pulling the pan of charred lamb chops off of the fire and waving at the smoke that had accumulated over the cooker. Potter, in a burst of foresight and more speed than she had seen him exhibit in the past month, managed to save the potatoes from boiling over in nigh the same instant.

Minerva coughed delicately as the air cleared, hoping that the dim evening light concealed the embarrassed flush she could feel heating her face (really, despite having grown accustomed to the readiness with which food was available at Hogwarts, she couldn't remember ever having been so frequently incompetent in the kitchen), and looked between the blackened entrée and the young man still holding the pot of potatoes between either end of a tartan teatowel. The tension of the previous moment had irreversibly slackened; to her annoyance or relief, she couldn't decide which.

"Sandwiches, then?" she asked.

Potter looked hesitant. "As long as they're not toasted."

Minerva glowered up at him (a growth spurt last December had left him a couple of inches taller than she, although it was doubtful he would ever grow any taller). "Five points from Gryffindor, Potter; I will not tolerate cheek in my house."

One corner of Potter's mouth tilted up in amusement.

Dinner, such as it was, proceeded without further incident. Minerva's icebox and pantry were better stocked than they had been in . . . than they had ever been, and there was a hearty supply of cold meats and cheeses, mustard, fruits, fish, vegetables and breads. They ate, standing, at the granite-topped island unit she had wheeled to the centre of the kitchen, Minerva casually adding a handful of kale and a couple of slices of tomato to Potter's scurvy-inviting beef roast and cheddar.

"Oh, don't look like that," she chided him when he wrinkled his nose at her contributions. "If you're only going to eat one meal a day, it's going to be a reasonably healthy one."

"Like scones?"

Minerva shot him a stern sidelong look. "Cheek, Potter. And my standards have since narrowed in regard to what approximates 'food', now that your aversion to nourishment has somewhat abated. Butterbeer, contrary to popular adolescent opinion, is not the backbone of a balanced diet."

Potter took a bite of his sandwich, but chewed it deliberately, as if to demonstrate emphasis on the 'somewhat'.

Quartering an apple, Minerva changed the subject. "Have you read your letters yet?"

After washing down his food with swallow of the aforementioned spineless beverage, the boy nodded.

"Anything of note?"

He shrugged. "Viktor Krum might visit Hermione in a couple weeks."

"Oh, well, that's nice." It was -- nice, but not anything spectacular. While she approved of the Bulgarian Seeker -- a polite, empathetic young man, and impressively humble despite his success -- Minerva couldn't imagine the ambitious Miss Granger to be more than passively interested in someone who was, despite his many admirable qualities, well . . . frankly, dull. Krum's life, albeit fairly extraordinary in some respects, seemed to lack excitement in every area outside of Quidditch, in which Miss Granger was not especially interested. He took what excitement came his way in stride, performed the tasks required of him and then moved on, and although some would argue that his reserve would provide an offset to Miss Granger's own ceaseless determination, Minerva had a feeling that the opposite was true. She saw much of her own younger self in the girl, recognised that same combination of bookishness and brazenness, that _thirst_, not only for knowledge but for experience, that she herself possessed. She certainly saw enough to surmise that Krum's placidity would ultimately be his undoing in his quest to win Miss Granger's heart. He simply wouldn't challenge her enough to hold her attention for very long. Their very farness from one another was likely the key factor in what had kept them in contact for the past two years.

In this case, however, Minerva admitted that Krum might be precisely what Miss Granger needed: a rock, someone unconnected to the turmoil yet fresh in the seventeen-year-old's mind, compassionate but distant enough to be an ideal distraction, at least for a brief while.

"And the others," she queried, "are they well?"

"They seem to be. Draco's in Chepstow, visiting a sick aunt. Luna's dad's hired Colin Creevey for the summer, as a photographer--"

"Naturally."

Potter nodded. "Mister Lovegood's got him hunting for the first known picture of a Blibbering Humdinger."

The derisive snort escaped her before she could stop it. At Potter's raised eyebrows, she rolled her eyes. "Well, _really_ . . ."

". . . And Neville's Uncle Algie," he continued, "is building him a greenhouse in their back garden."

"Is he? Good. I've heard wonderful things from Professor Sprout about Longbottom's skill in Herbology. If only he were so adept in all his subjects . . . his father was such a brilliant wizard, especially in Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts . . ." The sentence ended in her mind, _though apparently not brilliant enough._

Comprehension registered in Potter's otherwise stolid gaze.

"It must be difficult," he said, "to have taught them. To teach us."

"Oh, well . . ." Minerva faltered, flustered. "One gets used to it, I suppose."

She glanced up from a piece of gradually browning apple to find him staring at her evenly, sceptically, and breathed a defeated sigh.

"No," she admitted, "one doesn't. The teaching, yes, but . . . it's never easy, watching students leave Hogwarts, wondering what will become of them, did I do enough to prepare them for the world; and then to wonder it, again and again, when the absolute worst happens . . . But," she amended, smoothing a hand over her hair as if to cast off the dark cloak of thoughts from her head, "I wouldn't trade my position for any in the world."

"Did you ever have children of your own?"

Minerva laughed. "Good gracious, no. I already have an average of seventy per year; one more would have been the death of me. No, my students are all the children I've ever wanted."

A small smile touched Potter's lips. "So there was never a Mister McGonagall?"

She shook her head. "No -- though not that a few didn't _try_."

"Who?"

"That, Mister Potter," she said with finality -- the conversation had already grown more personal than she had intended, although she found herself not minding it overmuch, "is between they and their egos."

After the food had been put away, Potter made to retire with his book to his room, but paused in the kitchen doorway as Minerva charmed the dishes to wash themselves.

"Have _you_ heard any news?" he enquired, his brow slightly furrowed. "From the Order, or . . . or anywhere else, about things?"

She brooded for a moment on the answer. Alastor _had_ contacted her early that morning by fire. As for what to reveal, and how much, if anyone deserved to know . . .

"Attacks are still happening," she confirmed. "The only vaguely hopeful sign is that they appear to be made seemingly at random. The Death Eaters are still working together, but their organisation is . . . well, it almost _isn't_. Obviously, if they haven't disbanded, You-Know-Who must still be at large, but no reports have come in of his specific actions. He hasn't been sighted since . . ."

He caught her meaning and, ostensibly satisfied, his only response was a single nod before he disappeared into the parlour.

Minerva leaned against the edge of the sink, where a sudsy coarse-bristled brush was scrubbing furiously at the black crust left on the frying pan that had contained the singed lamb chops. 'Vaguely hopeful' was one interpretation of the goings-on -- or lack thereof -- of Lord Voldemort's devotees. 'Potentially catastrophic' was the other. Severus Snape had divulged that he had received no orders from a source of higher rank than Lucius Malfoy for the past month. What could the Dark Lord possibly be planning, that was so horrendous as to give him cause to secret himself away even from his followers?

A youthful voice, rich with amusement and terribly at ease, echoed in her head: _What are you up to, Tom?_

* * *

__

Hours later, the question continued to loop through her thoughts, a broken record of remembrance despite her efforts to knock off the needle. Her room was dark, soundless, and Minerva's mind was misted with lucid dreams, mimicking the nocturnal fog that settled nightly over the moors. The question had been a mere slip of the brain. She was no Necromancer, but the somnambulists of her subconscious clawed their way to the surface of their graves nonetheless.

_. . . If you spent day in and day out with no one but that -- that _zombie_ of a child . . ._

Sixteen years old, near the greenhouses, picking dead leaves from her hat:

"_What are you up to, Tom?"  
"Shhh -- it's a surprise."_

At seventy-six, in her bed, a hand reached up and tangled itself in her hair:

_No. There is no Tom; Tom is long dead._

Sixty years dead and thus ageless, immortal, in ether or in ink or in memory . . .

Fifteen and seventy-two and seventy-six (in her own cerebral cemetery): _The Chamber of Secrets has been opened._

Repression, regret: one cannot change the past.

_"I loved you once."  
"An eternity only needs once."_

Responsibility, remorse: no matter how much one might wish to.

_The boy is long dead; long live the boy._

Twice, Ginny Weasley had succumbed, beaten down by the repetitious laws of history . . . but what of immortality? What eternity awaits those who break the laws of yesteryear?

Minerva awoke to pain, blood, and screaming. The latter was not her own.

In the rapid blur of activity achievable by those who have slept lightly, she darted from her bed and out of her chambers, down the stairs and into his.

"Potter!" she shouted, her hands on his shoulders to still him rather than shake him; he was already thrashing plenty. "Potter, wake up!"

He did, bolting upright so quickly she had to flinch back to avoid being hit. His breath came so fast and heavy she wondered if he wouldn't lose consciousness again, and his eyes rolled wildly as he struggled to take in his surroundings.

"It's okay, Potter; you're safe." The vow left her lips before she could properly think it through. "It was only a dream."

Regaining something of his wits if not his calm, the boy shook his head vehemently. "It wasn't! It happened, it fucking _happened_, she--"

The sentence halted as though it had plunged off the edge of the world.

Potter's eyes, already red from restless sleep, grew redder, and glassy with tears.

"I can't stop seeing it," he said hoarsely, an uncontrollable quaver in his voice. "Every time I close my eyes, I can't . . . and the smell . . ."

Minerva drew him close, as much to mask the dampness gathering in her own eyes as to comfort him. So accustomed to his reserve, she momentarily tensed at the severity of his response. He clung to her like a life ring, his fingers curling desperately into the white satin of her shift, not sobbing but hyperventilating, his shoulders rising and falling erratically as he took in great gulps of air. She ran a soothing hand along his back, feeling more helpless in this task than if she were made to duel a dozen Death Eaters. To be optimistic would be horribly out of place; to lie, an insult, no matter how well-intentioned.

Minerva settled, as she too often did, for silence.

_I'm so sorry, lad . . . oh, God, Harry, I'm so sorry . . ._

It was some time before he calmed. In fact, his breathing grew so steady she suspected, momentarily, that he had fallen back to sleep in her arms. It wasn't until he began to pull away that she realised she had been holding on to him as tightly as he had to her, and she released him quickly, abashed. He had dreamt of fire, but the last thing she wanted to do was smother him. Furtively, she wiped her eyes.

"Better now?" The question sounded absurd even to her own ears, but Potter took it in the spirit in which it was meant.

"Better . . ." he murmured, empty-voiced and staring at the ceiling.

"Can I get you anything? A glass of water?"

His eyes flicked to hers. "No, thank you. But--" he quickly added as she began to rise, his cheeks pinkening as he nervously moistened his lips, ". . . could you stay -- stay with me, just until I fall asleep again?"

Minerva chewed lightly on her sore tongue, which was still smarting from the effects of her own zealous incubus. She nodded, and sat back down on the edge of his bed. "All right, Potter."

His mouth twitched in a semblance of a grateful smile, and, hesitantly, he shut his eyes.

She watched him for an indeterminate amount of time, remaining long after the occasional flutter of his dark lashes that indicated a return to the Land of Nod, although these new visions seemed mercifully benign.

Nevertheless, the sick, cold feeling that swam in her stomach made her feel as if she had swallowed an eel. Now, at sixteen and especially in sleep, the likeness was uncanny, right down to the faint crease of uneasy ruminations that furrowed his pale brow . . .

_I loved you . . . You're not him._

She caught herself before she could slip further down that treacherous slope, and quashed guilt that ascended like bile in her throat. There was no use in dwelling on what she had -- or hadn't -- done, those many years ago. She was not the only one, after all, whose sightless trust had been violated, who had underestimated the gravity of what had been developing right under her very nose. Scholarly and worldly experience both had taught her well that stupidity was no more discriminating an affliction than any other illness of the heart or mind. And yet . . .

It was remarkable, really, how little rationality actually figured into one's life.

For the second time that night, Minerva fought to regain her mental footing. It was a sudden warmth upon her hand that managed to hold her fast to the present, tethering her to reality rather than revery in much the same way as she had, she hoped, done for him.

Repentance, redemption.

Giving Potter's hand an appreciative squeeze, Minerva left behind the boy who died, and turned her attentions to where they ought to have lain, with The Boy Who Lived.

_The boy is long dead; long live the boy._

* * *

__

She hadn't meant the pledge to be taken literally, least of all by herself, and so it was with more than a little confusion and mortification that she found herself awakening next morning in a bed that was not her own.

How on earth had she ended up in here? True, she'd stayed longer than she'd intended last night, and exhaustion had been nipping at her heels all the while, having caught her up after her own restless kip; but surely she wouldn't have grown so fuzzy-headed with fatigue that she couldn't find her own chambers again?

The last thing she recalled was leaning down, her head brushing against his pillow, as she checked to be certain that he slept soundly . . .

"Oh, Merlin's beard!" Minerva exclaimed, burying her face in the traitorous feather-filled case that had brought about her undoing.

It was a small consolation -- extremely small, for she couldn't decide whether it was that or a curse -- that Potter was not presently in the room. She wasn't sure what she would have done, had she woken to his bewildered -- possibly alarmed -- gaze boring into hers. Preferably, she would have woken before him and snuck out undetected. Ideally, she would have done so some hours earlier.

As it was, he had at least given her the courtesy of collecting herself before she would have to face the gallows of her own humiliation -- namely, himself. He had even, she noticed as she sat up, been thoughtful enough to cover her with the eiderdown, whether for the sake of her comfortableness or modesty, she was unsure. She had sprung from her own bed so hastily the night before that she had not even considered assuming her dressing gown.

She _did_ assume it, after scraping up as much of her composure as she could and detouring shortly to her room, where the rituals of her morning toilette bought her blissful time to further her equanimity -- mid-morning, she corrected herself, for a glance out the window revealed the sun to be high in the east. Good gracious, it had been ages since she had last slept in! And, judging from her level of energy, providing it was not only an aftereffect of shame, she seriously contemplated doing it more often, albeit hopefully -- definitely -- under different circumstances.

Tea, she decided. There was nothing in heaven, hell or on earth that could not be alleviated by the imbibition of a Nice Cup of Tea.

. . . And, she frowned to herself as she descended the stairs, a nice plate of bacon?

Yes, the smell was unmistakable. Bacon, sausage, and porridge, too. That couldn't be right . . .

But as Minerva entered the kitchen, she found all of these things -- plus one Harry Potter, who was bustling over the stove, clad in pyjamas and a tartan apron. Hearing the door swing closed behind her, he turned, spatula brandished like a wand.

"Good morning," he greeted her, and if she wasn't mistaken, Minerva could have sworn there was a cheerful note present in his voice.

She blinked, and her brain blanked of all the magisterial vindications she had planned to unload upon him. "Good morning," she echoed dumbly.

"There's tea," Potter informed her, gesturing with the spatula at the squat green pot and two matching cups which rested on the table. "I found Yorkshire and English Breakfast. I wasn't sure which you'd like, so I figured, as it's breakfast . . ."

"Oh, yes . . . that's fine." She sat down stiffly and poured herself a cup. The first sip had all the effect of a hot bath after a Quidditch game to her senses, and she allowed herself to slouch back into her chair in repose. "I didn't know you could cook."

Potter flipped the bacon and sausages onto a waiting plate, then brought the food to the table, resting the hot porridge pot on the multi-purpose tea towel. "Ever since I've been tall enough to reach the cooker," he shrugged. "Aunt Petunia insisted I pull my weight around the house. Did you sleep well?"

"Er--" Minerva started, her hands tightening around her teacup. "About that, Potter . . ."

"I didn't mind," he said quickly, spooning porridge into a bowl, which he then slid over to her along with the salt. "It was my fault. I didn't mean to wake you, or--"

"Oh, don't be silly, boy," Minerva dismissed his insistences with a wave of her hand. "It was pure irresponsibleness on my part; I should have left far sooner than I did. It is I who should be apologising to you. You have my word that it will never happen again."

She inwardly blamed the flush of her cheeks on the steam rising from her cup.

Potter's shoulders lifted in a second shrug. "It was kind of . . . nice," he quietly admitted, poking at a sausage with his fork. "I mean, I've never had . . . no one's ever, you know, done that. It felt good. Safer."

Minerva's heart went out to the boy. She had known more than one child throughout her years who had been forced to mature in the absence of basic human solace. She did all she could for them, of course, but it was difficult; so many, like Potter, having never relied on physical comforts, simply didn't recognise needing them.

Regardless, it was preposterous to think she could spend every night as she had the last. Impropriety didn't even begin to describe the flaws in that idea.

". . . I am here for you, Potter," she promised him, stumbling over the words. She had never felt so awkward in the presence of a student. "If you ever need . . . but I cannot . . . that is to say, it would be inappropriate for me -- for us to . . . oh, this isn't coming out at all right!"

"It's okay," Potter assured her. "I understand. I didn't expect -- I know last night was a mistake."

He looked as if he wanted to say more, but thankfully he held his tongue.

Minerva cleared her throat and straightened up in defiance of the urge she had to slide under the table and possibly, the castle's foundation permitting, into a hole in the ground. "Well, now that that's settled . . ." A swallow of porridge punctuated the sentence, and it was some minutes before either spoke again.

"You're the first woman I've slept with, you know."

Minerva choked on her tea.  
  
"Jesus, Potter!" she spluttered between coughing. The boy looked unashamed.

"Sorry," he smiled puckishly. "Couldn't resist."

And because he was smiling -- the first true, broad grin Minerva had seen on his face in over a month -- her indignation dissolved in a matter of heartbeats.


	3. If You Were

**_Notes_**_: I've fiddled with the chapter titles (as I do), as their context seems . . . off (or hidden entirely) without their accompanying bits of lyric. All lyrics, unless otherwise noted, are by the Cranberries (because I think them the best band in the world and good luck in convincing me otherwise), 'War Child', 'What You Were' and 'Reason' thus far._

_Of course, thank you to those of you who've reviewed. I really wasn't expecting to get such a positive response from this -- and naturally I'm elated that I have. ;D Ankalagon, there _is_ a plot, sort of -- I don't want to reveal overmuch -- but it won't unfold at the fastest of paces. For this pairing to be even minutely plausible, the characters' actions have got to be backed up by enough explanation and evolution (hence the slowness of this chapter), but yes, I am leading up to something beyond the relationship itself._

_Thank you all again!_

* * *

__

**iii. **_I don't know what to say,  
__I don't know what to do,  
__I don't know what you want;  
__Is there anything I should do?  
__'Cause if you were in someone else's bed,  
__If you were in someone else's head,  
**If you were**__._

* * *

__

"Wotcher, McG."

The salutation, though still enthusiastic, was weaker than it had been in the past. A wry smirk formed on Minerva's lips.

"While it's a pleasure to see you, Nymphadora" -- Tonks pulled a face -- "I was under the impression that Moody would be contacting me himself. I hope nothing is amiss?"

The young Auror shook her head, a mass of pale curls bouncing about her pretty -- in its present guise, anyhow -- countenance. "Nah. I don't reckon, at least -- he's gone to investigate a jingling round the back of the house. Probably just a crusty old stray, but you know the drill: constant vigilance!" She punched the fire for emphasis, causing a shower of sparks to spit out onto the hearth rug.

"And a very wise drill it is, now of all times."

Tonks sighed, and a puff of smoke wafted into the room. "Too right. Just last night Bill and Hestia got back by the skin of their noses -- literally. They had to stop off at Saint Mungo's, the scratches were so bad. I think the Goblins make a special effort to get as much shi-- er, stuff, under their nails as possible."

"I can only imagine," Minerva grimaced. "Although I quite wish I couldn't. Speaking of Saint Mungo's, how is Mister Shacklebolt holding up?"

While the fire distorted the colouring of those who spoke through it, Tonks' cheeks brightened visibly. "Good. The Healers are planning on releasing him tomorrow, but it'll be a bit before he can return to work. Not that that'll stop him."

"Well, I'm very glad to hear it. Do see that he takes it easy, though -- as easy as he can."

Tonks snorted cynically. "As easy as he'll let me, y'mean."

"Indeed."

"How's Harry?"

It was Minerva's turn to sigh. "As well as can be expected. He is improving, though. He's in the library at the moment, concentrating on his summer schoolwork."

Tonks winced in sympathy for the boy. "Ouch. Summer work was bad enough, but a summer teacher to go along with it . . . No offence meant, of course," she tactfully tacked on, taking note of the Transfiguration professor's raised eyebrow.

"Of course," Minerva dryly agreed.

"Erm." Tonks' gaze shifted to her left, then instantly lit up. "Ah! Mad-Eye's back -- and what d'you know, he _did_ bring in a crusty old stray. Watch yourself, McG. Tell Harry I said 'Hi!'" And with that, the head of Nymphadora Tonks vanished, and a visage Minerva was much more pleased to see took its place.

"Albus!"

"Hello, Tabby," Dumbledore smiled. "Alastor was good enough to let me in. I came with bells on."

Minerva felt as though a great burden had been suddenly lifted from her shoulders. "It's such a relief to see you again. How are matters progressing with Fudge? How are _you_?"

Her relief was short-lived. As she studied her mentor's face, she noticed that his eyes, despite the fondness she had always found them to contain toward her, held a tiredness that caused her throat to tighten.

Still, his tone was not disconsolate when he answered her, "Cornelius has been taken care of -- for now. I am fine. It is _you_ whom _I_ have been worried about -- and your young charge. How are you, my dear?"

Minerva knew that Moody and Tonks must have left the headmaster to his privacy; he never addressed her in such informal terms while in the company of others, a habit _she_ had infixed in _him_ in the early days of her tenure at Hogwarts, when shows of authority had been absolutely non-negotiable to her sense of professionalism.

"Oh, well enough," she sighed. "Helpless, anxious and guilty, but comparitively superb."

Albus' expression became one of pure incredulity. "Minerva McGonagall, _my_ Minerva McGonagall, helpless? Nonsense. I won't believe it for a second. Not _my_ Tabby."

Minerva smiled with greater ease than she had in the past two weeks. "Perhaps not completely," she conceded, then sobered, "But it is quite possibly the most difficult task I have ever undertaken, and that I feel _I_ am having a difficult time does nothing to assuage my conscience. I just . . ." She exhaled at length, then shook her head. "I don't know what I'm doing, Albus. His mood changes from from moment to moment -- from sorrowful to angry to fearful to almost _normal_ -- and I have no way of anticipating . . . I _try_ to be what he needs -- what I think -- what I _hope_ he needs, but . . ."

Dumbledore studied her gravely, with a resignation she had come to recognise from him more and more frequently, reminding her that he was not without his own sense of complicity. "Then you are doing all anyone _can_ do for the boy," he said abjectly. "His behaviour isn't out of the ordinary for those who have survived such traumatic experiences. The only thing you can give him is space when he desires it, and comfort when he does not. I'm afraid there is no textbook way to deal with these sorts of situations."

She nodded. "I know. I only wish . . ."

"We all wish, my dear. We all do."

_But for some things so drastically different._ She kept the thought to herself. It did not do to dwell on dreams. Albus had taught her that.

"He has nightmares," she moved on. "Not prescient ones; their origins seem rooted in the past." _Not that one can really tell the difference._

"Also to be expected," said the headmaster wearily.

"I thought briefly about giving him a potion to help him sleep--"

"No, Minerva," Albus broke in. "We cannot risk his nightly cogitations being disturbed in any way. Mister Potter's mind is, I am sorry to admit, one of the few things we have left to depend on. As awful as it sounds -- indeed, as awful as I feel saying it -- we could do with another of his prognostications."

"So Alastor has hinted at. Believe me, if such occurs, I shan't waste a second in contacting you."

His hand appeared in the fire. Minerva took it and held it tightly. His papery skin was cool in the midst of the flames.

"I never doubted you would," he said warmly, but the assertion felt like a lie as his fingers slipped out of her grasp. "And alas, I must be getting on."

"What? Already?"

Dumbledore gave her a small smile. "Unfortunately so."

"Is there nothing you wish me to tell the boy, or to tell him yourself? He's only doing his schoolwork--"

"Then that is already an extremely welcome change. You're doing well, Minerva. I trust your judgment in dealing with whatever Harry requires; I would not have consented to his staying there otherwise. You have my complete confidence."

And although his words were laudatory, they carried a finality she knew better than to argue with.

". . . Thank you, Albus. Do be careful."

"Constant vigilence," he murmured with a wink, and with a faint "Farewell, dearest Tabby," the fire became precisely that, no one more, one person less.

Minerva remained in front of it for some time, feeling rather chillier than she had before. Albus' commendations ran again through her mind, and under pretence of these, after a handful of minutes she rose and headed for the library to check on Potter's progress.

Her resoluteness was an ingrained response.

That the weight of her culpability had multiplied tenfold was seemingly unaccountable.

* * *

Potter looked up from his Divination homework as Minerva entered the library.

"Miss Tonks asked that I pass along her regards," she informed him as she made her way over to where he was seated, in one of the four high-backed chairs that stood around a small circular table on top of which his other schoolbooks had been placed. She didn't wait for his response before she continued, "How are things coming along?"

"The usual," he shrugged. "Firenze's classes are more interesting than Trela-- Professor Trelawney's, but the homework he gives is more difficult than hers." He gestured to a short pile of parchments on the table, upon which were written, in journal format, the beginnings of a work of mildly spooky fiction.

"'Saturday, 17 August,'" Minerva read aloud from the topmost parchment, "'Moon enters Libra, emphasising relationships. As have none and am currently in exile, will expect unrequited love letter from Luna Lovegood. Have already prepared gentle refusal of affections. Luna is lovely girl, but unfortunately Aquarius; relationship obviously doomed to failure.'"

"Ours is a love that dare not speak its name," Potter hopelessly confirmed.

Minerva leaned against the arm rest of the chair nearest the boy's, her eyes skimming down the page. "'Monday, 19 August: Moon goes Void of Course throughout morning; catastrophe imminent. Will wait it out in room. Moon back on course and in Scorpio by afternoon, creating outlet for pent-up emotions. Cabin fever will break. Will spend evening working out stir-craziness into normal, modest level of insanity.'"

"What do you think?"

"I think it's a load of rubbish. I expect you'll get very high marks."

Potter smiled.

"What's your sign, Minerva?"

She flinched slightly, and again debated the wisdom of ever allowing him to use that name. It was almost as unsettling as 'Voldemort'.

"Oh, I haven't the foggiest. Whichever one coincides with the thirtieth of March."

Potter thought for a moment. "Aries, then," he replied. "It suits you."

"Does it?" Minerva looked sceptical. "In what way?"

"It's a fire sign, the first sign of the Zodiac. Aries are thought to be quick-tempered, stubborn, and natural leaders. The constellation is a ram."

"I _did_ take Astronomy, Potter, I know it's a ram," she said, somewhat clipped. "And I don't see how that's so accurate."

Potter only blinked at her.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said hastily.

"Well it isn't," she maintained. "I never lose my temper, and aside from my being your Head of House I don't know that I've done much in the way of leading, and as for being stubborn--"

"Okay," Potter interrupted her. "I believe you. I was wrong, no need to keep on."

Minerva frowned, an expression she would call 'annoyed' but that Albus had once described as 'sulky'. "Enough of this poppycock," she scoffed, tossing the parchments back onto the table and standing up. "If you're going to be educated in this house, it's going to be in something useful. Come with me, Potter."

The order was spoken so vehemently her teeth clicked together with his name, and Potter obeyed it without hesitation.

They marched -- or rather, Minerva marched; Potter trailed behind in the sullen manner of all students anticipating punishment -- up the stairs and into a room that might have passed for a dungeon, had it not been located on the highest floor of the keep. The Owlery of McGonagall Màrrach had fallen into disuse as the size of the family dwindled, and now contained only one owl: Minerva's own, a curmudgeonly bird of the spectacled variety who, at the moment, was the very picture of stately dormancy, nestled dozing on a tree branch roughly three feet in length that was positioned above a few head-sized stones whose heat could be felt even from the doorway. On either side of the apparatus, tropical pot plants flourished, a strange site set against so much forbidding grey stone.

"Shoo, Severus!" she commanded the owl with an emphatic wave of her arm. "Go find a proper tree for a few minutes. It's summer; it's not that cold out."

Without opening its eyes, it took a couple of steps along the branch, but remained rebelliously in the room.

"You named your owl," said Potter slowly, "after Professor Snape?"

"And what a fitting namesake it is," Minerva groused, taking two careful, silent steps toward the animal. One huge yellow eye cracked open and watched her suspiciously. "Out," she told it.

The owl turned its back on her.

Minerva was unimpressed, but her voice was nonchalant when she spun on her heel. "Fine," she said over her shoulder. "Have it your way. Potter, hex the branch."

"Beg pardon?"

"You heard correctly, Potter; hex it."

"With what?"

Minerva shrugged. "With whatever springs to mind."

Tentatively, Potter withdrew his wand from the back pocket of his jeans and pointed it at the tree branch. "_Evanesco_!"

The branch vanished. Severus let out an alarmed squawk as his talons groped the air where there had previously been wood and his wings flapped furiously to keep himself from falling into the hot stones.

"Serves you right," Minerva sniffed. The owl shot both her and her charge an offended glare before flying out one of the wide glassless windows, tutting huffily as it went.

"Now," she addressed the young man beside her, who was watching her with a mix of unease and amusement, "that was very good, Potter. Unfortunately, that particular charm is considerably less effective on humans and other living things. Of a somewhat similar effect is the Destruo Jinx; do you know it?" Harry shook his head. "Repeat after me, then -- wand down, lad, wand down -- _Obliterate_."

"_Obliterate_," said Potter.

Minerva nodded in approval. "Pronunciation is key, until you become skilled enough that reciting the incantation in your mind will suffice, as Professor Flitwick should have already drilled into your head. However" -- Minerva conjured a small stone wall and crouched down behind it, and motioned for Potter to do the same -- "the Destruo Jinx is not recommended at close range without adequate protection. Hex a pot plant, Potter."

The boy's eyes peered overtop the wall and he quickly aimed his wand. "_Obliterate_!"

The ensuing _boom_ was deafening as cannon fire, and Minerva was suddenly all too aware of her error in choosing so resonant a room for the demonstration.

"Good," she praised against the ringing in her ears as she helped Potter pick himself up off the floor and dusted the soil from his hair. "Very good, although perhaps a relocation . . ."

"_What_?" Potter shouted as he attempted to wipe the sap off his glasses.

"My thoughts precisely," Minerva muttered, plucking the spectacles out of his hands and cleaning them with a tap of her wand.

* * *

The hot stones went with them (cooled), and the wall was conjured anew, along with various other teaching aids, on the castle grounds. Minerva had got an idea.

"Ready, Potter?" she called.

There was a brief flurry of movement, and the word 'yes' was spelled out in gradually dissipating letters above a large boulder.

Minerva took a step back, then pointed her wand at the stone sitting at the top of the pile on the ground. "_Venatio Veneficus_."

It rose a good thirty feet, getting its bearings, before it whirred through the air in a sweeping concave arc toward the boulder. For a moment it looked as though it would impact the great rock directly, but a change in its course at the last instant caused it to only nick the edge of boulder's summit. It rebounded upwards some seven or eight metres and then, abruptly, dropped.

Potter had been inching around the boulder, his back pressed against the rock, which accounted for the makeshift Bludger's somewhat less than pinpoint sense of accuracy. He waited, his gaze never leaving the flying stone, until it wasn't two metres from him before he actually sprang into action, diving to the grass and rolling to the next shelter -- the second wall.

Minerva felt her shoulders sag as she let out the breath she had been holding. The boy had more patience than she -- than anyone she knew of, really; most people tended to change their position fast and frequently in order to throw off their opponent's chances of getting in a hit. But, she reflected, Potter was a Seeker: he was trained to lie in wait until the opportunity for victory presented itself. The effect it had had on his reflexes and the manner in which he approached conflict was oddly serpentine -- but effective, she saw as Potter allowed the stone to whiz over his head. In the time it took it to double back, he struck.

"Well done," Minerva appraised, once the shower of rubble had ceased.

"It was nearly _too_ easy," Potter confessed, to which Minerva's eyebrows rose.

"Shall we try two at once, then?"

Potter chewed at his bottom lip as he contemplated the pile of stones.

"Could we try all of them?"

"Don't you think you're getting a wee bit overambitious?"

He shrugged, and Minerva sighed.

"All right, Potter, if you're that sure of yourself . . ."

Her tone left him a final chance to reconsider. He didn't take it.

"_Venatio Veneficus_."

The stones swirled up like leaves caught in a whirlwind, and Minerva leaned against the aged elm near the abandoned stables to watch. An enervating mix of astonishment and apprehension lurched wavelike in her breast -- he really _hadn't_ overestimated his capabilities. She knew he practiced duelling often -- many of the students now did -- but a classroom setting had done very little to showcase his progress. This was much different. It was as though she were witnessing a dance, and Potter's skill and power in accomplishing its steps were nothing short of breathtaking for a boy his age.

_But there you are wrong,_ a voice rectified in her mind. _He is no longer a boy._

It was true, she realised as he leapt over the low stone wall without the aid of touching it -- his legs merely pivoted in a handless cartwheel of the sort she had once seen Ginny Weasley perform across the school grounds in a burst of exuberance. She wondered if the girl had taught him the tumble.

Potter had grown up so rapidly, Minerva had scarcely noticed the occurance. He was an old soul to be sure, and adolescence was a time of such arrogance for most children that she had, at times, mistaken his maturity for egotism. He wasn't only self-absorbed -- he was right. So much of the world _did_ revolve around him, his actions. This young man was _important_, and his awareness of that fact did nothing to lessen its verity.

It wasn't until he had done away with all but the last remaining stone (hovering some distance above, presumably reorganising its strategy) that he paused, and looked to her for an evaluation.

Minerva's lips searched for a minute for words she couldn't quite form. "Well . . . you'll certainly pass your Defence NEWT," she finally settled on. "Although," she added, for the sake of constructive criticism, "I'd like to see you work on your . . . subtlety . . . a bit more. There may come a time when your scope of motility is severely impeded upon, and the ability to dodge hexes at close range may be the difference between success and failure."

"Yes ma'am."

Minerva gave him a quizzical look. "Formality in the field?" she asked teasingly. "You're on your way to becoming an Auror already."

The smile that had begun to form on his features faded in an instant, and his eyes grew wide. "Minerva -- behind you!"

She didn't need to turn to know what his warning pertained to. The sharp motion of her wand almost too quick to see, and she caught the conjured Beater's bat in midair as she twisted round on her toes in an almost terpsichorean movement. With a _crack_ that resounded through the air like lightning, the stone was punted back in the direction from which it had attacked.

"There can only be one Highlander!" Potter bellowed triumphantly. Minerva's brow furrowed in confusion. ". . . Muggle joke," he explained. "But that was _brilliant_. Did you ever play Quidditch?"

"For six years," she confirmed, no miniscule amount of pride in her voice.

Potter looked impressed, but just as he opened his mouth to say something more his gaze shifted to a point beyond her shoulder.

The wind all but left her lungs completely as he tackled her to the ground, and not a second too soon. The stone punched into the earth where she had been standing, and as it soared up again for another go Potter thrust his wand up into the air.

"_Obliterate_!"

Minerva suddenly found the young man's face extremely close to her own, as he shielded both his head and hers from the resultant detritus. His glasses had fallen off, and for a length of time she couldn't measure -- something seconds and centuries at once -- his green eyes bore into hers with familiar intent.

"They always come back," he said hoarsely, his breath warm and quick against her lips. A chill ran through her, a not entirely fearful thrill, and she pushed him aside and sat upright.

"That's -- that's enough for today, Potter," she stuttered, her eyes flickering along the grass.

"Is something the matter, Minerva?"

The name sounded a mockery in her ears, and she fought the urge to shriek at him, "Stop calling me that!"

"No, Potter."

She shouldn't be angry with him, she knew -- the rational part of her brain, though relegated to the back burner, still functioned enough that she knew her distrust was unfounded. It was _she_ who drew the parallels, she who saw what wasn't really there, who heard malevolence when there was none and overstepped her own boundaries.

"Go inside," she quietly commanded. "Put the kettle on. I'll tidy up out here."

Potter got to his feet, but lingered. "Are you sure you're all right?"

The warm weight of his hand rested upon her shoulder, and she clasped it tightly with intent to throw it away -- but thought better of the potentially hurtful action, and slowly disengaged her fingers from his instead.

"Yes, boy, I'm fine."

He returned to the castle with unhurried steps. Once she heard the kitchen door shut, Minerva covered her face with her hand. What was wrong with her?

_"It's been fifteen years, Tom!"  
__"You promised to wait for me."  
__"This isn't you. I don't even recognise you any more."_

At the time, she had been so positive of that. Disenchanted but young enough for melodrama to still be clinging to the hem of her cloak, she had said those words with a shake of her head and a shiver of revulsion. It hadn't been him -- not the Tom she had known, whom she had . . .

. . . That Tom was dead, and ghosts, even in the wizarding world, only haunted. They did not inhabit -- they were bodyless beings, a law of magic that encompassed possession. Harry Potter simply . . . he couldn't possibly . . . she had known him since he was a baby, for Merlin's sake!

_It's been fifteen years . . . I don't even recognise you any more._

But she did -- she thought she did.

_He left a part of himself in me, and I can't help but be partly him. I can't help . . . affecting people . . . the same way he does._

What was there to be done about it, about a similitude that not only made sense, but had been commented on before? The analogues between them were nothing new. Albus himself had remarked upon them when Potter had been twelve -- Minerva remembered it well, for it had cut her to the quick, and made her determination to succeed with Potter where she had failed with Tom that much stronger. Not in any overt way, of course -- she knew she mustn't interfere in the young man's life in any larger a capacity than that which her station dictated. His life had already contained more than its share of instability; the last thing he needed was to receive the featherbedding attentions of some outdated schoolmarm -- which, she had to acknowledge, was probably how he had always perceived her. Strict, unappeasable Professor McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor, who always did the right thing because it was _she_ who was doing it.

But surely that was not giving the boy enough credit, to assume he still held the romanticised notions of a child, of black and white, good and evil, right and wrong. Potter knew by now the myth that was infallibility.

Her doubts, certainly, gave him no credit at all. After all, it was _her_ romanticised notions -- erroneous, ridiculous, paranoid notions -- that were the cause of her unjust and ill-timed misgivings.

Austere, clannish Minerva McGonagall, Head Girl who had never truly grown up.

And these deluded histrionics were doing her no great service. Of course she was at fault; she rarely wasn't, in her view of things. But martyrdom was a privilege for those who performed heroic deeds, not well-intentioned mistakes. Selfish though she felt, she was not blind beyond her nose, no matter what her spectacles might say otherwise.

She glanced back at the kitchen window, and through it found that Potter was playing the most unsubtle of voyeurs, the nature of his expression obscured by the glare of the sun on the glass. Shame swept through her. What he must think of her strange behaviour, when she should have stood as the pillar of normality against which he could breathe and rest.

It was unacceptable.

The frigid armour of her mind built itself back into place, its many splinters and fissures sealing together to form the wall that had solidified her inexorable reputation. She cleaned away the debris from the demolished stones, and left the conjured items to dissipate in their own time.

Potter was still at the window. The way the light bent created an illusion of a self-satisfied smile on his face as drew back and disappeared from view.

Minerva felt a fluttering in her stomach, the edginess and exhiliration of treading on thin ice. She did with it whatever the mental equivalent of frustratedly ripping it to pieces, throwing them the floor and jumping up and down on them was.

* * *

"Have I done something wrong?"

They were sitting in the parlour, a picture of domestic contentment, aside from his question. Each had a book open in their lap, and tea and sweets (and a bottle of Potter's ever present butterbeer) rested on the low table between their respective chairs. Minerva paused, a Ginger Newt partway to her mouth.

"No. Whatever gave you that idea?"

Potter idly twisted the scarlet ribbon bookmarker of _The Voyage of the Dawn Treader_. "Earlier," he said. "You seemed . . . displeased. And you've been quiet -- and not only because you've been reading."

"Oh, I . . ." she trailed off, all plausible excuses failing to present themselves. "It's nothing to concern yourself over, Potter."

He stared at her dubiously for a few seconds, then apparently deemed her answer passable -- or if not passable, then the most she was going to give him -- and began to peel the paper and foil off a chocolate bar labelled 'Cadbury Turkish Delight'. He'd requested the stuff after he'd finished _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_, and Mundungus Fletcher had _acquired_ (for it never did to specify precisely _how_ Mundungus got his hands on anything) a few bars from a Muggle confectionery and passed them through the fire to Minerva a couple of days ago. Despite having been curious after her own first reading of the _Narnia_ series, she had never sought out the sweet herself. She knew Albus was fond of it, but she'd never remembered to ask him for a taste.

She observed as Potter broke off a square and bit off the top half, revealing a sticky little pool of reddish-pink jelly in the centre, which he licked off first before eating the chocolate itself. Noticing her interest, he offered her a piece.

Minerva bit cautiously into the square. The chocolate seemed normal enough, although it lacked the warming effects of the sort made by wizards. The jelly, however, was quite unlike anything she had tried before, a little spicy and sweet at the same time.

"Do you like it?" asked Potter.

"It's . . . interesting. What's in the jelly?"

Potter looked down at the wrapper, and shrugged. "Delighted Turkish people, I guess."

"Ha."

She finished the square, and sucked the melted chocolate from her fingers.

"Um--" said Potter. Minerva arched an inquiring eyebrow. "You've got -- here--" He leaned over in his chair and raised a hand to her face, and brushed his thumb along the corner of her mouth, and just below her bottom lip. Minerva was too shocked to respond, and it wasn't until he'd sat back in his chair that she recovered her wits.

". . . Why did you do that, Potter?"

Again, he shrugged. "I--"

"Why didn't you simply tell me instead?"

Potter's cheeks reddened, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I don't know, I just . . . did. I'm sorry."

Minerva gazed at him evenly. "Potter, are you . . ."

His brow furrowed slightly. "Am I . . .?"

She shook her head. "Never mind." It was too preposterous. It was too _embarrassing_, and his reply would not only cement that feeling but add to it.

A draught crept in through one of the windows, blessedly cool on her heated face but stirring a shudder from her limbs. The evening was crisper than usual, and the twilight sky was fading fast into night. Minerva ran her hands over her arms, and pointed her wand at the fireplace. "_Incendio_."

Flames sprang to life, and out of the corner of her vision she thought she saw Potter flinch, although the movement could have been a legerdemain of the sudden flare of illumination.

"How much did you like Alastor Moody?" he asked of a sudden, catching her off guard.

"I beg your pardon?"

"A couple of weeks ago, the day he came by, you said you'd once liked him a great deal more than you do now."

She frowned. "What on earth brought _that_ to your mind?"

Potter's eyes danced with the shadows thrown from the firelight, but his face remained impassive. "I was only wondering something. You said you were at Hogwarts together, but Tonks told me Moody's over a hundred. You couldn't have been students together."

Minerva's face hardened, and her lips thinned. "I fail to see how my private life is any business of yours, Potter, and might I add that impertinence is not a trait I encourage in my students."

"I'm not your student," he pointed out. "Not at the moment, anyway."

"Be that as it may, the boundaries of respect and personal privacy are not conditional according to your whims, despite your considerable experience in bending -- if not breaking completely -- whatever rules you find inconvenient to your purposes."

"Was he a teacher?" Potter persisted. "I don't know that Barty Crouch, Junior would have mentioned Moody's teaching at Hogwarts before, even if he had known about it, but it would make Professor Dumbledore's hiring him -- or who he thought was him -- in the first place a lot more reasonable if he had held the position before."

Minerva blinked. "_That's_ what you're wondering about -- the headmaster's motivation for choosing Defence Against the Dark Arts instructors?"

Potter's stolid visage did not waver. "No."

"Then what--"

"You know what. You're avoiding the question."

"I don't have to answer to you, Potter."

"Did you fancy him? An older man, someone you shouldn't have been attracted to? The Chamber of Secrets was opened when you were a student; was he one of the Aurors investigating it?"

"_Mister Potter_!" Minerva shouted, leaping to her feet. Her pulse was a pounding rush in her ears, ruffled indignation phasing out what shreds of compassionate tolerance had survived his test of her patience. "That is quite enough! If you think for one instant that you can -- that your staying here permits you to disregard -- _Harry_, are you listening to me?"

Potter's eyes had drifted to the fireplace, and his mouth had drawn small and tight. "Yes," he hissed through his teeth.

"Then -- then explain yourself! What the devil has got into your head?"

"Forget it," he muttered.

"I will not!" She stamped her foot, a childish gesture she immediately wished she could have contained. Potter's eyes widened, and for a fraction of a second Minerva could have sworn they reflected a glimmer of amusement before he schooled his face back to its former blankness. It had a sobering effect on her. To think herself ridiculous was one thing; for her students to hold with such a notion was something she would not allow. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, as if to furl back time and erase the indiscretion of her comportment.

When she opened them again, she wondered if she hadn't succeeded. Potter, book, chocolate and butterbeer had all disappeared. The only evidence as to their ever being present was the library door, hanging ajar on its hinges like a mouth parted in invitation.

Swearing under her breath, Minerva threw herself back into her chair, and declined to accept it.


End file.
